Rustle
by cellophane prince
Summary: It's sometimes difficult to believe in what truly makes one satisfied. Hedgeshipping, one shot.


"What's going on with you right now? Why can't you stay?"

The sun tilted its rays of warmth through the dust particles that floated beside the blinded window pane. Photographs of famous, busty blonde-haired women hung variously across the wall beside Surge's helmet, scratched and battered; a reminder from his days of fighting a different kind of opponent.

His was the only room in the building that didn't buzz with electrical equipment A space for rest; escape. A ceiling fan swung its blades lazily above his bed, slicing through the thin invisible waves of moisture that continued to hover there. The light was kept out, leaving shadows sprawled across the room at angles that hinted at the general layout of how, in time, the ex-lieutenant lived his life to himself and to the beings that were permitted to enter there.

Brock observed the scribblings of the women on the wall, imagining how their pens curled as they filtered through the tall, blonde, rugged man's name through an assembly line of hearts; it was as though his desires had been misdirected, his emotions misplaced. Bending forward, Brock pulled his jeans over his tanned body, fingers raw, muscles twitching.

For a moment, there was silence.

"Why can't you stay?" Surge repeated, voice crackling with sleep and a heavy tinge of disappointment.

Brock sighed through his nose, otherwise unresponsive. He buttoned his waist, fingers trailing up his zipper; his eyes were squinted, wandering from his own stomach to a camouflage suit that hung from the closet door, to his companion lying on the mattress, halfway covered by the sheets.

"You said checkout was early," the brunet finally said as they faced one another.

A shrug, accompanied by a stretch. "That isn't what I meant."

"It's what you said."

"That was meant for me, not for you."

"That's weird."

Surge turned over on his side. He grinned sheepishly, still exploring himself with his fingers.

"It's still earlier than that right now."

"Is it?"

"Yeah."

A Pelipper could be heard from outside, its cries pressing against the windowpane and muffled by the sound of fabric rustling. The feel was cold in the spaces unoccupied in the room, the dry fog escaping higher into the sky from the Kanto port town as the dawn shone through the nooks and the crannies.

Their gaze broke as Surge covered his eyes with a tattooed arm, his bicep curling over a pillow. "You busy today, or something?"

Brock smiled grimly.

"Eh? Something else?"

The brunet picked his shirt off the floor; twirling it, preparing to pull it over his head, but stopping short.

"I have responsibilities to take care of, man."

Surge sighed. "Yeah, well, so do I. But I don't—"

"No, no, this is different. I can't be here right now."

A pause. Surge scratched himself, one hand still within his pelvis.

"You can't be here?"

Brock shook his head, looking at the walls. "And well, it isn't that I…wasn't satisfied, or that I had a bad time—"

Surge let out an incredulous chuckle. "What, then?"

"—just not used to this, okay? I'm just not."

A flock of Wingulls passed overhead near the window, batting through the layers of dissipating cloud.

"Yeah?" was all Surge slowly responded with, sitting up slightly amidst the covers, rubbing his eyes.

Brock wandered closer, shirt still in his hands. "And, I mean—"

"Look," the blonde man interrupted, frowning slightly. "I'm not…really here to listen to those kind of excuses, man. And I don't really think you're here for that, either. You either have something to do, or you don't, you know. I get that."

Stretching out further, he moved forward against where Brock stood, their eyes darting across one another before meeting again.

"So you can't handle the lifestyle, then?" Surge went on, sliding a hand through his buzzed hair. "Or you just don't want to?"

Brock rubbed his chest, brow furrowing. "Well, no, I just—"

"Just what?"

"—It's just a hard place to be in right now, you know? I still have to get used to it, the whole concept."

For another few seconds, they were quiet. The rays of light squeezing through the cracks of the window blinds shone with greater intensity. A half-smile was stuck on Surge's face. "Yeah, well," he started, scratching his forehead, "I feel that. And the same shit that goes for you, goes for everybody else too. That's just how it turns out, buddy. That's normal, it's how this works."

It was Brock's turn to laugh. "Yeah? Just like that then, huh?"

Surge's gaze moved away slightly before returning, as he shrugged. "You just can't worry about any of that other shit right now. You know how you want it, and you're tryin' to figure out how you'll get it. Bottom line is, every man's got some kinda unsatisfaction, something that we…need, that a lady can't always give. And all I know right now…"

Their faces gravitated closer. Surge's hand rubbed across the front of Brock's jeans.

"…is that you can reach that itch for me."

His hand ran across Brock's cowlicked hair as they collapsed. The clock beside the bed ticked as Brock moved his legs across Surge, blankets and shirt pushed aside and falling halfway onto the floor. Their noses met as they leaned into each other, planting kisses lightly and shortly, the backs of their necks bristling.

"I have a family," Brock mustered, voice muffled by skin. Surge grunted, chin on his chest.

"So?"

"What do you mean so?"

"So do I."

"Are they here?"

Surge closed his eyes.

"No."

The sheets were pulled apart further; their hands on each other's hips, Brock nuzzled his unshaven chin into the pillow, cheek sliding against Surge's neck. Their chests rested together, with their heartbeats keeping each other's rhythm.

The clock alarm went off.

Minutes passed. The fog had fled the wooden and concrete floors of the city, disappearing into the sky and escaping from the rays of the sun. The sounds of the native birds taking flight had mingled with the noises of footsteps and the cries of men on the docks, ringing bells and boarding boats. Surge's ears were massaged by the familiarities of his home, the place he knew and the place he was forced to love, as he rested his head on his soft arms, staring at the ceiling fan that swung slowly above his head, a guillotine for the rising air. The warm, intimate moisture it had sliced through earlier was gone, and as Surge moved his gaze slowly from all the places of his room that had once been occupied by the curiosity of strangers, he began to ponder how often a feeling from deep in his chest ached with the need to be with someone; to have a companion to fall in love with at his side. Perhaps it didn't even really matter who it was.

Maybe he could do it. Maybe he didn't know how.

And this was when he realized, fingers trembling from memory and silent want, that the more time he spent in the silent company of others, meant the more time spent merely left desiring them.

Alone.


End file.
